I Hope You Dance

My little Aidan has dazzled me again. He got up on stage today, the youngest member of his hip-hop dance class (and the only boy), and danced his little heart out. Sure, it was hard to discern any actual dance moves in all of the jumping about, but that's not the point:

He did it. Fearlessly. And he loved it. And it showed. 

So even though I'm now convinced that suburban dance studios are first cousins to beauty pageants (no eight-year-old should look that much like a Vegas showgirl), I'm happy he got to have the experience. 

I hope he holds onto that feeling of joy that comes from putting your heart into something. 

And I hope he learns to breakdance.  

Kissing Bandit

The other night Aidan announced that he "just loves" his classmate. We'll call her "J," a precocious little girl whose ability to chatter rivals even Aidan's. 

Well, I thought, that's cute. But then he continued...

"I love her so much...that I tried to kiss her," he blurted out and then assumed a look of shock, as if someone else had just said it. 

I tried to contain my own shock (and laughter), as I asked, "And what did J think about that?"

"She didn't really like it," he said, matter-of-factly. 

"How could you tell?"

"She yelled, 'Don't kiss me!'"

"I see."

Upon further investigation, it seems that once J had turned him down, he went to dance class that evening and tried to kiss a girl in his dance class, who, he reports, "didn't really mind." Trollup.

OMG. Why is my five-year-old kissing girls? What has the world come to? Did I miss the episode of Word Girl that involved kissing?

Needless to say, we had a talk about how kissing is something that should wait a few years (decades?), but let it surprise no one when I get the call from some poor girl's mother, asking me to explain what turned my son into a kissing bandit. 

Disturbed

Well, Monday now promises to be the most disturbing night on television. 

After having watched Intervention, Obsessed and Jon and Kate Plus 8 last night (thanks, Tivo), am I still thinking about the heroine addict who sold all of his possessions to buy drugs? The obsessive-compulsive who wears her dead father's bloody clothes? No, I'm still pondering the public implosion of Jon and Kate's relationship.

I don't read tabloids unless I'm on a plane (really, that's the only time I allow myself to buy US Weekly), but, like everyone, I had heard about the alleged affairs. I knew that people were saying terrible things. But I didn't really believe any of it. And I didn't think anyone would let it impact the show. (If you're sitting there wondering WTF this is all about, the Vancouver Sun ran this snarky-but-decent recap of the drama.)

Last night's episode was just sad. Really sad. I think they actually think they are putting up some sort of facade. To listen to them go on and on about how they are committed to making sure that their kids don't get hurt in all of this, while they are essentially broadcasting the demise of their relationship to the world...it's delusional. 

I mean, some level of delusion is probably normal (even necessary) during a traumatic time, but it's not the kind of thing I'd want documented for the rest of my life. Or my kids' lives. 

I just don't know how they can possibly keep doing a show. There's paparazzi watching their kids' birthday party. They can hardly look at each other. It's creepy and sad and just depressing. And not entertaining (and this is coming from someone who enjoys shows about addicts hitting rock bottom).

Make it stop, TLC. Make it stop. 

Filler

When I don't blog for a long stretch (like lately), I like to tell myself that it's because I couldn't think of anything to blog about...only that's not really true, since most of what I blog about is the mundane and I've got lots of mundanity to spare. 

So I have no excuses, really, other than taking on two extra projects (Hawaii, here we come!), plus working my still-newish job in corporate America...yet I still found time to blog about American Idol last week, but you know, I was moved in that case. 

I expect to be moved in, perhaps, a different way this evening when I watch the season premiere of Intervention and the series premiere of Obsessed. As I said to my friends yesterday, I would watch a 24/7 network devoted to addicts and the strange things they do. It's sick and wrong, but I guess that's sort of what morbid curiosity is all about. And clearly I'm not alone in this, as I stumbled upon a Facebook group tastefully titled, "I'm Addicted to Intervention," which has more than 3,000 members. (Can we all be wrong?)

Right, so what was I saying about having nothing to blog about? Yeah, that. I'll try harder tomorrow.

Tracks of my Tears

**Spoiler alert for those living under rocks**

The first time I ever watched American Idol was the year Ruben won. I attributed my tears during the finale to the fact that I was laid up in a hospital bed, six months pregnant with twins. (As a side note, we almost named Owen "Ryan," but Ryan Seacrest made me rethink that decision.)

Six years later, I can't really blame my kids anymore, so I just have to accept it: American Idol makes me cry. Not every episode, mind you, just the finale. 

I can't help it. There's something about seeing a person realize their dreams -- regardless of if they later look back and regret the whole thing, or if they never put out a decent record, or if they're just in love with celebrity -- there's something about that moment when the single thing that they wanted more than anything becomes theirs. 

I don't know, maybe it's just a manifestation of my childhood desire to be a singer. Or I'm just sappy. But I love it. Not all the product placement and horrible song choices and cheesy guest appearances, just the part where you can see that flicker in their eyes and you know their lives are changed. Who knew American Idol had such depth?

Lest you think I drank the whole pitcher of Kool-aid, I do want to point out that during the part of "We are the Champions" when all the eliminated contestants emerged through the smoke, all I could think about was the song near the end of "Les Miserables" when all the ghosts come out singing. Creepy. 

But congrats, Kris! I voted for you...in my mind. 

Optional Mom

I hope you’ll excuse this delayed Mother’s Day blog – I didn’t want to post anything until I knew if it would be good or bad news and then I ran off to NYC before I could share it with you, but I did want to share it, so here goes…

The teenager came to brunch. I knew he had agreed to come, but I wasn’t letting myself get my hopes up. Actually, I was alternating between being anxious that he wouldn’t show and anxious that he would and that it would be tense and awful.

But he did come and it wasn’t awful. It was wonderful. We talked and ate and laughed and I felt like I was getting to be his mom again. It’s funny how such small things can be so important when you strip everything else away. 

You may have noticed a lack of teenager-related blogs in recent months. The trauma with him this fall/winter sort of pushed me over the edge and I basically just stopped dealing with it. Where he was concerned, I felt useless and unwanted.

After several months of this, I went to my therapist seeking some sort of absolution. I think that I wanted her to give me permission to give up…to accept that this person to whom I’ve given twelve years of my life, was just no longer going to be part of it…I wanted her to confirm my suspicion that I no longer had a role in his life. That I was an optional component.

What I got instead – and what it turned out I actually wanted – was permission to continue to be his mom. I may have been displaced, undermined, shut out and ignored, but nothing can undo the mothering I have done. I am still his mom, no matter who gave birth to him and no matter whose house he sleeps in.

I will be his mom, I told myself, even if I have to go another 10 or 20 years without any reciprocation of my concern and love for him.

But maybe I don’t have to. Because he came to brunch. Because you have to start somewhere. And tiny steps feel so much better than nothing at all. 

Happy Mother’s Day to me.

But what I really, really want is...

I wrote this post about Mother's Day for Examiner.com today and it's left me feeling a bit conflicted. (Go ahead, click on it - I'll wait.)

It's all true, mind you, I do actually like spending Mother's Day with my kids...I guess I just feel a little hypocritical because this year I've been presented with the amazing opportunity to spend Mother's Day both with and without my children. 

I get to start the day with the mega brunch buffet I mentioned in the piece (my kids have seriously been looking forward to it since last year) and end the day having a romantic dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in Manhattan. 

No, I haven't recently won the lottery and purchased a private plane (I promise to blog about that if it happens), my husband just smartly turned what could have been a disastrously-timed business trip into what could be the best Mother's Day ever. 

Yay for thoughtful husbands! And frequent flyer miles! And for mothers who will accept babysitting their grandchildren for two nights as a Mother's Day gift!